The Stars Threw Down Their Spears
by ravenously
Summary: Jim Moriarty invites the mysterious, bestial Sebastian into his winter cottage in the midst of a blizzard. He's been completely removed from society for years, and the professor finds himself more and more curious. At this point, who isn't surprised that things go awry?
1. Earth Raised Up Her Head

There's a running stream of _wrong, wrong, wrong, surprisingly correct, wrong, wrong, what is this bloody basic algebra?_ running through his head, jaw clicked tight with tension and shoulders long ago clenched and hunched in what can't be good for his spine.

The fire has long since burned down to faint embers, and it's only with a particularly loud pop and crackle that Jim looks up, eyes red rimmed from exhaustion.

Jim's been grading papers all blood night, and the only reason he hasn't gone off in a fit of blind rage is the half-bottle of scotch slung in his arm like his very best friend. He started writing with his left hand to give his right a respite, and maybe it's the long spidery handwriting that always naturally happens with the left, but there's a touch of paranoia in the air, spreading through and making his heart beat too fast.

Which, for James H. Moriarty, is not a good thing.

Where touches of paranoia can be felt with tantalizingly shallow presses, so too can the wings of madness gleam.

And, with that grim thought, Jim drops his pen onto the table and takes a long swig, grimacing. His mind is too much filled with poetry, it seems.

He gathers the half-graded mess of papers into his free arm, shutting them away in a folder with jerky, exhausted movements, sighing much more often than can conceivably be legal. A run through of his hair- and damn, he really needs to get it cut- and a quick glance around the room with narrowed brown eyes, and he's certain there's no reason for such wayward paranoia.

Damn. "'_What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?'_" He murmurs to himself, the poem blooming into his mind quite suddenly and unexpectedly. Jim casts his eye about another moment longer, then shakes out of his reverie, throwing both scotch and folder back onto his desk and striding over to the fireplace.

He's low on firewood again. Have to venture out into the snowy wastelands and… Gah. That sounds like much too much work, and Jim shivers at the idea. Just looking outside can confirm such hesitation, as the forest around him conveys snowdrifts that would be waist high and likely dangerous to traverse. Hypothermia and frostbite are serious threats. Well, if he didn't have the glory of a well-insulated cottage, light and fire.

The new fire lights easy enough with the dry timber, but anything outside is bound to be soaked through now, after that blizzard. But for now, the nice warmth that glitters from the corner is enough to make him say 'later' to gathering anything new.

"Remind me, dear mindspace, to never decide to 'get away from society' again. Well, provided that it's during holiday and right before a god-damned blizzard." His voice is rough and scratchy from the scotch, and slurred just a tad too much to be his normal Irish lilt.

And maybe the paranoia's spread elsewhere, because he's talking to his head again. Lovely. An old habit that had died once the students stared at him a little too often, with too much of a weirded out look in their eyes that reminded him of childhood days.

Going from paranoia and William Blake to childhood taunts? Now that's a new low, even for a dull winter night. "Can't have us turning into _The Shining_, now can we? Then again, I never saw that movie, so maybe I'm getting it wro-"

He stops speaking as soon as he hears it, a dull thump coming from the front of the cottage, something too large to be a small rabbit, but not the crackle of a tree branch. If that makes bloody well sense, because it hardly does in Jim's head, either.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles and stands on end, goosebumps making him shiver despite the newfound warmth of the study. "Shite… I'm fecking well glad I haven't seen that many horror films…" He murmurs, trying to quell his rising paranoia-induced terror.

And it's stupid, it is. Just his head getting lonely and weird after being left alone for a week, wanting to find different noises and-

The mind thrives on stimulus and will concoct new stimuli if none are present. I know the younger children are fond of the 'Bloody Mary' game, but it is nothing more than staring at your reflection too long and your eyes playing tricks on you. Your brain gets bored, and tries for a change of pace. Hence, the distorted visual hallucination.

-And, honestly, now's not the time to be thinking of random facts. His professor voice. Gah. So utterly draining. But at least the rising bile in his throat has quelled and the white-fisted hands have gone lax.

Well, that is, until he hears another thump, this one quite obviously from the front door. Something large and… And there's the bloody handle being turned. Oh, shite. Fucking hell.

Jim locked it, thank whatever the fuck is keeping an eye on him in the heavens. "_And when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand and what dread feet?"_ Oh, lord, the poetry's back, a low murmur of a voice as he moves towards the front of the house, grabbing the rifle from the closet before he's even thought of what the fuck he's doing.

Because, really? Going after the- murderer, rapist, thief, criminal- thing at the door is probably the worst thing that Jim has ever thought of. Ever. And he once got so drunk he woke up in the middle of a farm field with no pants.

But call him deranged, psychotic, idiotic… But. Jim's at least a little bit curious. And the dark, lonely flickers of the hallway are definitely not curious, unless he gets philosophical. And with so little alcohol in his system, he really shouldn't, unless the Existentialist Crisis of '98 should ever be repeated.

Jim shakes his head, trying to force himself out of his meaningless woolgathering. Honestly, the places his mind takes him sometimes. The rifle in his hand is sturdy, and he makes sure it's ready to go- has he ever fired it, come to think of it?- before he takes a tentative step closer to the door, listening for any movement.

There is none, but he just knows that whomever- whatever- is still there.

It's that handy prickle of paranoia from earlier that has risen like a goddamn flood in his throat, making it hard for him to swallow down the nausea.

The door holds no eye-hole, so as Jim steps closer to the door, hand grasped around the brass knob, he nearly falls back as whatever is out there tries to open it again.

"I've got a fecking gun, you know. I'm not afraid to blast your head away like the damned JFK assassination." He spits out. It's not as menacing as he means it when his voice is shakey and stumbling and so quiet.

The movement stops, though, and there's a soft… _growl_? But it sounds like its made from a human throat, and oh god, that just makes it all the more disturbing.

And… Oh, Mother of Christ, it started snowing earlier, didn't it? More snow on that blizzard, and whoever's out there is probably freezing and going to die. And whatever many of his old colleagues think of him, regardless of the rumours, Jim Moriarty is not a murderer. Well. Officially.

His curiosity is getting the best of him. Maybe the scotch has gone to his head. Maybe, maybe ifs and buts. That's all it is, excuses. There's his whole life in a nutshell. "Look." Jim starts, swallowing around the fear that's still there. It's easier than he expected because… Honestly?

Something growling out of a human throat is interesting. More bloody interesting than shoddy papers and the thought of gathering firewood. A mysterious stranger on his porch in the middle of a blizzard? Interesting.

"If you promise not to shoot _my_ head off, I'll promise not to shoot _yours_. And I'll give you tea."

God, he's an idiot. Jim probes his mind for a second, trying to shut down as many wayward thoughts as he can, focussing his sole attention on that solid oak door. "And you can tell me all about why you're outside at this horrid hour."

There's another faint growl, and a grumble, some shifting around before, "_Reinkommen?"_ The voice is so gravelly that Jim immediately knows the man- because that rumble of a voice most definitely belongs to a male- and hesitant, as though the owner isn't quite sure on what he's saying. As though words escape him.

_Inside?_

Rude manners, it seems.

The German is a surprise as well, all thing's considering, but it does make him think back to Grimm's Fairy Tales, and all the deliciously horrid things that happen quite when things go strange and awry. How every beautiful fairy tale in that book had great horrors- that were conveniently left out by Disney, no less- to accompany the lessons.

Jim shifts his feet from side to side, trying not to let his mouth break into a fern-coil of a grin, because that would make him seem sadistic. To let a gravel-toned stranger who found his home in the middle of the night inside? Idiotic. But to smile at the prospect? Masochistic. He must have a death wish.

"Ahh. _Deutsch_?" He replies, and without another moment to think through his life choices, to stop himself from being an idiot, he unlocks the door and tugs it on its hinges inwards, letting in a sharp chill of wind and snow and- "Fuck, that'll melt all over the floor…" And really, now's not the time to be worrying about the wet snow when…

Blinking at the open doorway, he trails his eyes down, down, until they land on an auburn-coloured head, hair natty and filled with snowflakes. So it is a man. A human man. But he's sitting on his haunches, and as he turns his head upward, Jim's breath is sucked away.

There's a flash in the darkness- too many teeth, too straight, too many- of white teeth against a pale face, the glint of grey-blue-green-gold eyes piercing for just a moment before the figure has drawn back, just a shadow against the forest background as he stands from his haunches, tall and slim and fucking beautiful. No. dangerous. That's what he meant to say. Fuck.

"Oh… Oh my. '_Tiger tiger burning bright… In the forests of the night…'"_ Jim mumbles to himself as he regards the stranger, the feral eyes and wary stance reminding him immediately of the beast. "Good lad, William Blake…"

* * *

**Author's Notes**

This is really just an un-betaed story drabble that popped into my head today. I don't know if I'll continue with it. If you like it, though, please review? Love and thanks. xo


	2. Poor Little Wretch, Deal'st With Storms!

"Well. Come in, won't you? Or. Well. _Kommen mit, Herr_." He tries to pass away his astonishment with an awkward little cough, stepping back inside and waving towards the inside of his cottage with the rifle. "As long as you don't. Ah. Try to kill me." That, after all, wouldn't do. Would teach him not to be hospitable.

Or, well. It wouldn't. Since he'd be dead.

The shadow steps into the light again and_ honestly_, the brute is much taller than him, and rail-thin. The man takes a tentative step closer, and Jim sneaks a glance at his face, seeing… Apprehension?

The professor catalogs that for later, drawing his gaze over the man's entire body, observing, observing, trying to guess as much about his new guest as he can, and- "_Good lord_, you bloody idiot, you're barefoot!" For indeed the stranger is, and gauging by how red-white-nearly-blue his feet are, he has been for a while.

And the rest of him isn't much better. A tattered blue sweater and trousers. A pair of threadbare gloves. Nothing, that is, to hide him from the sharp winter chill. Moron. Idiot. Utter complete batshit stupid.

But the man isn't listening. He's still looking into the cottage with that strange mixture of emotions, those green-blue eyes so full of… Well, a lot. There's a feral power to the way the man crouches over himself, to the way each movement carries feline grace.

Tiger, indeed.

His gaze has moved from the inside of the house to the rifle, though, eyes narrowing in sudden suspension, limbs gone tense. And Jim's not an idiot. He can see the fearful, apprehensive 'fight-or-flight' that's thrumming through the wild man. The danger in that hum of energy is not lost on him, and he thinks, carefully, that maybe 'murderer' wasn't a wrong assessment earlier.

Jim sighs, then steps further into the house, going towards the closet and putting the rifle away slowly- _not, not thinking about all that damned snow_- purposefully putting his back to the creature- no, the man.

But is he? He looks like a man and walks like one, kind of, but there's that otherness feeling that Jim can't quite peg, the animalistic way his company seems to walk and move. Not to mention the lack of talking for the most part.

"Oh, come now. I promised I wouldn't hurt you." Jim says, trying to get the man to _move, damnit_ off his front porch. "You're letting cold in. And your poor feet, too." He's trying to stay calm. This is most definitely the perfect time to panic, and the quick beating of his heart tells him that his body knows this, but he keeps it collected. Master of his own mind, thanks much.

It's an old trick. Anytime the slow-build of thrumming panic so much as crossed Jim's mind, whether in the safety of his (_warm, cozy, not snow-filled) _London flat or in the middle of a lecture, he'd shut down any emotional response. Scarily easy, actually. Removed himself from the immediate setting and only allowed one or two emotions to trickle through.

He's been called _crazy _before, and it might just have something to do with the fact that someone died during one of his lectures and he just looked at the corpse dully, dispassionately for a good minute before doing anything. Could be a few things, actually.

But again, Jim's letting his mind wander, letting too many surface thoughts thread their way through to his consciousness with the beat of his slowly panicking heart. So he shuts down every emotion and want except for flashes of _concern _and _curiousity _and _clinical help, _straightening his back.

The man had followed Jim with his eyes the entire time, and as soon as the rifle was put away, some of the apprehension bled out of him, and now his eyes are back to that curious, inquisitive look, and the brute finally moves that gaze to look at Jim. A Jim who now is holding eye contact with a creature.

Because even if he is a man, he has enough creature in him to be classified as such. Jim sucks in another quick breath, mentally cursing himself in as many languages he knows, because this? This was stupid. It's weird and moronic and he should know better. And- _shut it down, veil, veil. _

He should be on his way to kicking the man out without so much as a by your leave. But that would surely kill the stranger, and he has no reason to do that. Besides. Still a curiosity. And he's still keeping up that _concern. _So instead of snapping at him, Jim just gives a small smile, and says again, "Come in. _Heireinkommen_."

The man has been studying Jim's clothes but his gaze snaps up at the German, brow lowering quizzically before he steps through the doorway stiffly as though his feet are more than just an inconvenient pain. Well, yeah, they bloody well should hurt, by god. "There. See? It's warm."

Jim doesn't even realize he's using the voice he uses with particularly daft children, but whatever the case may be, it seems to partially reassure the wild man, who has gone straight from the 'Hi, I'm shy and bashful and mysterious and lovely' to… Sniffing him.

Honest to god. The man has stepped into Jim's personal space and is sniffing his hair. He's close enough for Jim to see all that nearly melting snow in his auburn hair, to feel the huff of breath near his temples.

Like a bloody dog. Breathing in his scent to figure him out.

Close enough to… Smell _him_. And oh god, is he rank. Disgusting.

The Irishman snorts and tries to push him away, snapping, "Oi! Take me to dinner first, you animal!" He steps out of the man's space to close the door, tutting at all that _snow_, carefully running a hand down his shirt to brush away some of the freezing water that had dripped off his counterpart. Carefully ignoring the man's flinch at his sudden words and contact.

His counterpart who has gone from sniffing him to staring at the closed door and… Growling, again. If he had hackles, they'd be raised, Jim's sure. In other words, he looks like an attack dog (or a big cat) ready to pounce and attack until that door is open. It strikes Jim as curious, even more so. He files it away for later, blinking.

"No, no. Look…" Jim tries to reassure, and unlocks the door, opening it and closing it again. "Unlocked. Ah… _entriegelt._" He clears his throat and tries not to look to curious about the way the man straightens up again, eyes flicking from Jim's face to the door. He's not sure how much the man understands, be it English or human intelligence, at this point.

It's almost… Cute, the way the tiger of a man feels so threatened by a bloody door. And no, no, not thinking that, not at _all, _not after he's just met the damn man.

"You can leave at any time. You're not trapped." Jim says quickly, but even so, he opens the door and looks at the quickly-descending snow, almost a blizzard, and slams it shut again. "Oof. '_O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors...'_" Might as well run with his obviously mad mind and just spout out the poetry.

The man is staring at him again, seemingly placated about the door, tilting his head curiously at the jittery antics of his host. Jim shuffles on his feet, staring right back- staring into those green, green half-wild eyes- before he realizes the man is also shuffling, but for far different reasons. He's shivering and his feet must be killing him, red and blue as they are. Right. Hypothermia and frostbite. "Dear, dear. I think you should probably bathe. I'm not having a filthy wild man at tea. Very uncivilized."

Yeah, that's the train of thought he's going with at this point.

No, Jim doesn't normally bring in strangers and make them bathe. But obviously he needs the warmth and he's not dealing with a putrid scent everywhere he goes. So. That settles it.

Without even trying to think about it further, Jim just steps back into the foyer, grabs a hold of one of the man's giant hands- _Paws_, he thinks suddenly, mentally snickering- and starts to pull him into the direction of the bathroom. There's a surprised noise from deep in the man's throat, and his eyes go wild as he takes in the details, sniffing the air once or twice. Honestly, Jim's just happy the man hasn't lifted a leg and pissed all over his walls yet. Though, it would be an improvement to the stupid outdated, flowery wallpaper.

The creature- man, man- begins to limp halfway down the hall. He doesn't let go of Jim's hand, lets himself be pulled with nothing more than another gruff and grumble or two. Which is interesting, to say the least. To be so docile in the face of the unknown.

Jim Moriarty is about to undress a wild man with gorgeous eyes and make him take a bath.

And now. Now. Damn. No time to be a prude, Jim Moriarty. Buckle up and barge on into the situation, righto. Right. Jim opens the bathroom door and turns the lights on, letting go of the man to go fiddle with the bath knobs, trying to get it pleasantly warm for him.

It'll all catch up with him soon, he's sure, but for now, he's glad that the events thus far are being taken in stride. He'll let his mind sort through everything later. "Right. Strip, Wild Man." He says, giving a sharp, pointed look at the man, who's still just standing in the doorway, head tilted as though he's never seen bathroom tile before.

Right.

The man stares after him as he goes to grab the first aid kit, not even taking in the words that he's said.

"Oi! English? _Sprichst du Englisch?_" He asks, not caring if his voice is slightly waspish. The accent, he knows, is absolutely atrocious, and if the man were giving any sort of indication that he understand basic human interactions, he'd probably be laughing. Jim honestly doesn't care, though. He wants to help the man- which is weird- but his German is rather limited. He used to know more.

The man gives a strong, violent shudder, teeth chattering, but he glances over to Jim and gives a shaky nod, rocks and gravel voice gritting out, "_Ja._" Even simple words seem hesitant, and Jim barters that the man hasn't had to use people words for a while. Months, at least. At least he's not grunting like a caveman. Miracles. "Yes."

And oh, another miracle.

"Right. Strip then." Jim replies, pointing to the man's grubby clothes.

"_Warum?_" Ugh. So he's going to have to translate half the conversation anyways.

"Because it's bath time. And you need to warm up before you die of cold." He explains, still using that patient, almost condescending voice with him. Testing the water again, Jim grins and flicks a bit of the water into the man's face. Jim never claimed he wasn't stupidly impulsive.

It's worth it to see the man flinch back from the droplets, blinking rapidly and growling again deep in his throat, eyes darting around the room as though dangers lurked everywhere. Right, the case of the toilet monster who'll ravage poor men with near-frostbitten feet, dear me.

It seems that Jim's out loud monologue from earlier has turned into mental rants of insanity.

Right. Pressing matters at hand, ladies and gentlemen.

The man plucks at his sweater, as though thinking about it, and Jim continues, "And you're filthy. Disgusting. I can smell you from here. Phew. Gross. Ah. _Brutto._" He grins at the glare he gets, but at least the man is listening now. Listening and… Taking his clothes off.

Auburn hair goes missing for a moment as the man throws off his sweater, going at his trousers as soon as he can. Still so silent, but... Ah. There's a growl to confirm that he's getting agitated at the buttons. Jesus. Just how long has he been wearing them?

The brute has literally no concept of personal space, it seems, because he's stripping like here's no tomorrow, and jesus, there's not enough clothes because he's naked in seconds.

Fucking hell. Jim's eyes widen as he unconsciously slides his gaze up and down, blinking. _Yup, definitely a human male. _He's built like a fucking racing dog, all lean muscles and long, narrow hips and… Well. He's much too skinny. His ribs poke through and his stomach is nothing more than a metaphorical black whole.

Jim will have to give him biscuits with his tea later.

And since when was there a later?

_Good save, though, y'bastard. _Jim thinks to himself, averting his gaze as quick as he can. _Food is important. Yes._

_"_You. Bath. Now." He commands, layering more and more veils and control to stop his head and heart and body from panicking again.

It's obvious the man has neither hypothermia or frostbite, though he's perilously close to developing either one. The hiss when the man steps into the bath is so animalistic Jim starts, face jerking towards him, and he has to bite down on the flesh part of his hand to stop from laughing at the sheer hilarity of it all.

He's touched his toe in, and is slowly lowering the rest of himself below the water and… Damn. Jim looks away, sobered up immediately after that image. "_Es brennt!_" The man exclaims, his voice panting, but… He's listened to Jim. That's odd, as well. File away, file away.

"Yes, it'll bloody well burn, you're much too cold, my dear." Jim deems it safe to turn back around, raising an eyebrow at the shivering of his counterpart, sighing. Perhaps a normal man would feel a bit more pity, be more empathetic, but all he feels is that curiosity, that glimmer of interest humming throughout the man. And the willful _concern_ he's placed over his head. It could be fake, though. He's not sure. Maybe that's wrong.

Jim waits while the man's muscles stop rebelling against him in jitters and shakes, waits for him to get a bit of composure before he says, "Alright. You're warm. Now be a darling and wash, will you? I've mentioned before you're disgusting."

The man stares at him for a moment, blank incomprehension in every line of his face, before Jim points to the soap he had found beneath the sink and thrown over by the bath just in case, brow raised. The blighter blinks rapidly, then practically snarls at the soap, glaring at the simple bar of lye and dyes as though it personally started fucking World War II.

"You… Jesus, you animal… Clean. You're disgusting. The soap will make you smell good."

If the man had a tail, it'd be lashing. _Tiger tiger…_

"I won't give you food if you don't clean yourself. You're a walking talking hygiene hazard." Jim purses his lips, tone authoritarian. He's been told he makes quite the leader, with that no-nonsense tone he takes sometimes. Janie down the road said he always sounded like he was above everyone else, like he were the king. Be that as it may, it makes the man stop his snarling like a raving mad lunatic and glance at him, tilting his head.

Christ, his face is pretty disgusting, tangles of red beard and tangles of hair hanging over his eyes. "_Warum? Ich mag, wie ich rieche._" That's the most Jim's heard him say, but still. All that German. He can gather the basics, but…

"You said you know English. Can you use it?"

The man growls again, softer this time, but it's a growl born of frustration. "Why? Like how I smell." It's said in several grunts, and he's obviously not happy. But it's curious that he's listening to Jim, at least. Maybe he's like an overgrown dog, happy to please whoever helps him. Or something. Maybe it's a case of pretend ignorance to lull Jim in closer and then _chop, _off with his head. And... yeah. Not thinking of _that._

"Yeah, mate, but I don't. You've probably brought fleas in here, you're so dirty. Be a good lad and wash."

And… Jim blinks. The man obeys him without a word, even despite all the grumbling and gruffing, picking the soap up and beginning to wash himself. Jim turns away from his seat on the counter, scratching at his scalp. Well, the man's busy, so might as well sort through some things.

Like, for instance, the fact that he has a very human-like beast bathing in his bathroom. How a man could become so detached from society and nearly animalistic, Jim has no idea. And the fact that, after a quick glance, the man can be no younger than thirty? That in itself is strange. He's heard of wild children, those old stories, but a man? A full-grown, mentally capable man? How odd. How... Quaint.

He's alive, so he knows how to deal with himself in the woods surrounding the cottage. But even thinking through what he has seen, there's more questions than answers, and Jim can't dig too deep into his own subconscious at the moment because…

"Oh. Oh dear. No, the soap doesn't go in your hair." He blinks and focuses in on the other man, who, yes, was trying to scrub his head with the bar of soap. Jim sighs and jumps down off the bathroom counter, walking over to the bath.

The man just blinks up at him, tilting his head once more.

"Good job with your other… _Parts_… But that hair is just too long. Might I cut it?"

* * *

And that's how, a half hour later, Jim's sitting in the kitchen with a cleanly-shaven wild man, the latter having refused to put any clothes on that weren't his own. And Jim refused to let anything as filthy as those garbs set foot into his kitchen. They compromised, and the man is at least wearing a sheet.

The man hadn't let Jim near him with the shears at first, and Jim had given him a pair of scissors and stern look and let him cut his own hair, and had been pleased at the close-cropped hair the other was now sporting.

The beard had been harder, but Jim had managed to convince him that he meant no harm, trimmed and then shaved it off, with only a few more of those ridiculous and rather amusing growls and huffs.

His feet are swaddled in gauze for no other reason than the fact that the layer of _concern_ Jim forced on his mind made him want to protect the man, even from the horrors of wood floor. Dear god.

He sets two mugs of tea on the kitchen table, the noise loud in the quiet of the room, and Jim collapses in his own seat, threading his hands together to stare at his guest.

The man tries to untangle one of his hands from the sheet nest to grab the cup, hissing at the hot liquid. He nearly drops the mug, but manages to scoop it up with surprising reflexes, setting it down on the table with a confused, annoyed glare. Jim tries to stop the snort that threatens to be unleashed, but he can't. The man and his glaring, like everything is a personal offense to him.

"No shit, you raging lunatic." Jim said, rolling his eyes. "I just made it. Moron."

"_Unhöflich..."_ The man mutters, coughing around the presumed scratch of his throat. Hopefully the tea would help to loosen his vocal chords and stop that horrendous gravel with each word. If only so that Jim doesn't have to continuously try not to shiver.

Jim puts on a face of mock hurt, big brown eyes widening comically, gasping out, "How dare you! I am not rude, crass sir! I am but a Knight, doing his duty! Such accusations! '_He who shall hurt the little wren shall never be beloved by men!'_" He places a hand over his heart and pretends to sob. There's a reason he was _Macbeth _and _Hamlet _and bloody fucking _Pan _in his high school drama departments, and it's not just his ridiculously charming looks and pixie eyes.

The man quirks up the corner of his lip, green-blue eyes glittering in the kitchen's life. "You are… Hard to understand." He says, trying again with the tea and just… Lapping it up this time around. The animal. But, at least there's _some_ semblance of clarity and lucidity in him

Jim covers his burning grin with an eye roll, filing more away for later, but gives a small wink, drumming his fingers on the table, content to just watch this new curiosity go at his tea like a goddamned cat. If the man were a tiger, then Jim were a house cat.

_Wow. Thank you, darling Head-space. I appreciate the kind comparison._ Jim thinks to himself, more amused at his train of thoughts than anything.

"Well. I've cleaned you, fed you, clothed you kind of… It seems rather amiss not to at least have a 'thank you.'" Jim says after a while, raising his eyebrow for a moment. "I've done the whole _Gilgamesh _gambit without the need to kill a giant demon in the woods."

The man glances at him for a while, not comprehending, but then he finally fucking gets it, the brute, and murmurs, "_Danke schön_… I am… Sorry." And he does look sorry, with those large, brooding eyes and god. What has Jim gotten himself into?

"It's nothing, darling. Though, I will ask for one favour." He looks into those startling eyes again, running a tongue over his inner cheek. He'll have to sort through his memories and interactions and observations later, but for now, the image he's getting is one that is very depressing indeed.

For even on the surface, the man is emaciated, obviously malnourished, and those half-feral eyes, good lord. His half-crouched stance, even sitting is telling and Jesus… Jim just wants to pry until he's cracked open the mystery.

"_Was ist es?"_

"English, dear." Jim says tiredly, but his mouth still quirks up. "But I do request a name. I think I deserve one. I'm Jim Moriarty. The pleasure is all mine." He hands out a hand across the table, smiling brightly.

"Oh. Well… Um… Herr Moriarty-" And aw, look at him getting all formal. Bless him. But he's just staring at Jim's outstretched hand, and the professor draws it back, sighing internally. Maybe not so formal if he doesn't know a fucking handshake.

"It's just Jim, dear."

"Um. Jim…" And Jim could just shiver at the way the other's voice spins around the name, gravel rocks pressing around on all sides while his accent- Is there a hint of Irish in those front-spoken German-tipped words? Lovely- smooths everything around. "I know only my first name."

"Oh? Curious. Well?"

"Sebastian."

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Well, I think I mentioned the chapters might sometimes be short sometimes be long, didn't I? Well. If I didn't. Whoops. I bet anyone who read this thought it would never go anywhere. Sykeeeeee, I got more for you babes. Please review and let me know if something doesn't make sense- My German, the way the story proceeds, did I add a third arm somewhere for no reason? Bless and thanks. Jim says "Good on your for reading, you twats. I thought it was obvious." Sebastian just murmurs a quiet "Danke..." and goes back to eating.


	3. Come, On Wings of Joy We'll Ride!

"Sebastian." Jim nods happily at that, repeating the name as he digests the information, cogs of his brain moving forward and forward. It had always been like that- cogs. Clocks and cogs and gears of motion, his brain moving forward like a machine that could be changed at will. It was pretty and beautiful in the way that machinery oft was; perfect and clean with shining, gleaming metal, controlled in a way that each thought spiralled around like clockwork.

Well. It _had_ been like that.

Now it's more like a broken clock, and everyone from the neighbors to his students to Jim himself will attest to that. Now, his head's more like a clock that mostly works but skips a cog every now and again, the second hand sometimes moving faster and faster than anything else and skipping ahead, or slowing down to a drag, stopping for days on end.

There's a reason that Jim's recent lectures had slowed down to only a couple a week.

"Seb. Sebby. Seb. Seb." He tastes the name, flicking his too-wide eyes up and down the other man's face, tapping his fingers on the table. Chewing on his bottom lip for a moment, lost for a second in the ocean of veils in his head, he fails to notice the small, preening smile that dances on Sebastian's face for a moment.

"Why don't you know your last name?" Jim goes for the simplest of questions, the introduction of one, though in truth his head is full of dizzying queries, of things he_ needs_ to know. It's the professor in him, maybe. Oh, Sebastian, _'Where thou dwellest, in what grove?'_

"_Ich weiß nicht._" Sebastian murmurs after a few moments, hands going curiously still under Jim's scrutiny. He blinks, then leans forward suddenly, moving the mug of tea deftly to one side, nose inches from Jim's nose.

And _damn_, but Jim's gaze rises from that strong, elegant nose up to green eyes, looking more grey in this light than anything. The expression in Sebastian's eyes can only be described as searching, judging, the eye contact done with such scrutiny that even Jim's uncomfortable.

Don't get him wrong, Jim's known for a disconcerting gaze, but he still follows basic human rules of conduct, and staring without blinking with such plain _judgement_ and almost all of his emotions showing plain on his face is just too much.

"English, please, Sebastian." Jim murmurs, and he's surprised he hasn't moved back yet, still inches from his guest's face. He blinks rapidly at the amused huff of air that escapes the wild man, but that isn't what he's focussed on.

No. That isn't whatsoever.

Because the expression in Sebastian's eyes has gone from searching to downright feral. And not in the cute, innocent way, but in the dangerous _I'm playing with a bloodthirsty tiger in a man's body way._

The way that tigers stare at prey and seem to growl mine.

Jim goes very, very still.

And those _teeth_. Sebastian's lips peel back as a slow smile builds on his strong face, and too many, too many floats through Jim's head again, cutting through his veils of _don't panic_ with almost as much precision as those teeth could probably puncture. "You are very specific about my language, _Herr_."

As curious as Jim is, even he knows when he's playing with fire. "Excuse me, but there's a rather nasty puddle of melted _snow_ all over my front door." He rambles out quickly, jerking backwards and standing up quickly, too quickly, for Sebastian flinches backwards, dragging his gaze across Jim's every movement.

Jim tries to ignore it, taking two heavy steps to grab a towel, still blinking rapidly, turning around to go down the hall to the front door, away from Sebastian. He wills himself to calm down, mentally placing more and more layers of silk over the cogs of his mind, slowing down the machinery, shutting it down, down.

It may be a bit odd, but he's been doing it for years. And now? It's of utmost importance, because Sebastian is obviously not human enough to be considered safe.

_Though the idea of 'smelling fear' sounds odd and antique, it holds a certain level of truth. When the mind is addled with fear and panic, one tends to sweat and release certain emotionally-induced pheromones. Though not a conscious airborne scent, accessory olfactory organs are able to sense these releases and use a combination of societal communication skills and instinctual reactions to gauge the fear level._

Jim forces out several deep breaths as he scrubs almost mechanically at the wet spot near the front door, heart rate evening out. Though a bit morbid, just explaining it to himself in his 'professor voice' _does_ actually aid in him being able to place more and more veils over emotional cogs, distancing himself from the reality that faces him back in the kitchen.

Somehow, Jim has managed to invite a beast into his blizzard home.

And he can't very well make the man leave, because as much as he likes to say he doesn't feel guilt, the death of the mysterious man would be on his fingers. Plus, despite the fear, he's still interesting. In almost every way.

Even if he can smell fear.

Jim throws the sopping wet towel in a basket by the front door, then slowly makes his way back to the kitchen, brow furrowing a bit at the fact that Sebastian has evidently deemed sitting in a chair to be much too civilized for him. Oh, bother.

Any of the instinctual panic at such beastial behaivor is quelled with the bubble of a laugh, considering that Sebastian is now crouched on the counter of the kitchen, sipping his tea with both hands. "Quite the Tarzan, you are, Seb." Jim croons, grabbing his own tea and bumping a hip into the table across from where Sebastian has made his home, raising an eyebrow.

He once again misses the small quirk of a smile at the nickname, staring clinically at his bandaged-wrapped feet, clinging to the edge of the counter with easy balance. "You are very confusing." Sebastian's rumble tosses him out of his reverie, though, and the professor shoots his gaze up to the other man's face, a smirk landing on his face.

"I've been told that, believe it or not. My lectures, therefore, are not very popular. Well, they used to be." Jim shrugs, taking a long sip of his tea, letting long fingers wrap around the mug contently. The halls didn't feel quite so dark and lonely when he was walking back from the front of the cottage, less cold and chilly, so he lets a smile dance on his face.

Maybe it's because he's managed to force down and shut off the panic and fear again.

Sebastian scrubs a hand down his newly-shaven face, seeming confused for a moment, testing out the new shape. "You talk a lot." He says after a few seconds pause, and it sounds gruff and rough and all sorts of brusque, but there's a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes that makes Jim almost splutter out his tea.

"Yeah, yeah, I do, darling." Jim mutters, forcing burning tea down his throat to stop himself from staring again. "It's a habit. You know, when someone lives by themselves, they end up talking out loud a lot. And in their head. It's a bad thing to get into. You know, just earlier I was feeling all paranoid and talking to myself and _boom_, here you are."

It's rapid and almost slurred as he rambles his way through, and Sebastian cocks his head like an inquisitive cat, brow lowering. He takes a few moments to parse through the meaning of the words- _not surprised_, Jim thinks, _I wouldn't be able to garner any meaning out of my woolgathering, either_- toes wriggling on the counter. It's oddly distracting, and Jim's gaze drops down again, before, "I don't talk out loud."

Jim raises his gaze again, but that's all Seb seems to want to say, and _really_, the professor could write _essays_ about that simple sentence. It's an affirmation- He's alone by himself most of the time. He's not as weird as Jim is. He doesn't like talking much. He feels paranoia- That one's a stretch, but remember? Sometimes Jim's gears jump ahead.

"Well, you're talking now, and I appreciate it. It's been awfully lonely here." Jim admits slowly, finishing his mug and kicking up from his leaned position, stepping carefully over to the sink. Sebastian flinches as he turns the faucet on, a startled growl leaving the man, but Jim just rolls his eyes and shuts the water off.

The man seems to have some weird aversion to anything technological, and Jim files it away. More and more and more questions.

"Next question, then." Jim says as he sets the cup into the sink, the clanging of the dish against the sink the only sound to balance the strange clash of auras, of presences in the room. "Why were you outside in such horrid weather?"

Sebastian shifts, the white sheet moving with him, still covering him up quite adequately. Bloke must be cold, then, because he obviously has no aversion to just frolicking in front of strangers with his cock hanging out.

And. No, not thinking about that.

"I'm… Always outside." Auburn hair ducks as he pokes at a hanging thread of the sheet, the water curling it at the base of his neck, one long-fingered hand rising to scratch at the nape. Must not be used to it, yet. He glances up, flicking the thread to the ground with a carefree motion. Sebastian looks confused, sucking in a bottom lip before he continues, "It's where I live. _Leben._"

Jim's lip curls for a second, disbelief clouding over his face. That's fucking impossible. Honestly. Is the man superman or something? "Bull. Shite." He says, blunt as hell, eyes flat.

Sebastian hums low in his throat, meeting Jim's stare with nothing more than brief… Competition?... In the gaze. "You think I'm lying." He murmurs, looking back down at his tea before setting it on the counter beside him, shifting his arms so that they're out of the sheet and crossed over his knees.

"Hell yeah, I do. I may be a bit out of it from grading papers all night, and I might be losing my mind, but that's _fucking_ impossible. You couldn't have survived in that ratty little sweater."

"I had more. I woke at sun-down and they were all gone." Sebastian ducks his head, sniffing at the sheets for a moment, wrinkling his nose. He lets the sheet fall lower, apparently not happy that the linens are so close to his nose, the white cloth falling down to his hips, revealing the too-skinny flesh.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Jim would think he's doing it on purpose if he wasn't so wonderfully clueless. "How long have you been out there?" He asks instead of another question, though, head prickling curiously at the way that the man is phrasing things, the strange vernacular he speaks. Honestly, Jim doesn't think it's fully because of the German that Sebastian seems so fond of.

"Since I remember."

There's something about how he says it, like it's an admission to something else that makes Jim stop questioning the man. Sebastian has a hard glint in his eyes, the blue-green washing out into a grey, his limbs tensing slightly before he hops down from the counter, pulling the sheet back up to wrap around himself. His arms might be hidden under swaths of cloth, but he still looks dangerous somehow, merely like a wild cat draped in valiant Roman robes.

Jim decides to nod, humming lightly before he opens the fridge, rummaging around in one of the drawers before grabbing an orange, tossing it deftly to Sebastian, who has to shoot an arm out from under the cloth to grab it. His reflexes truly _are_ remarkable.

Sebastian starts peeling it with both his teeth and hands, looking simply _ravenous_, brow lowered in concentration. Huffing out a breath of laughter, Jim rolls his eyes, trying to keep distant.

"I checked the radar on my phone and it looks like we might be stuck here for a while. Even more storms all day tomorrow. You probably shouldn't leave, unless you want to die, of course, but it seems like you have good survival instincts." That's putting it mildly, really. Even at starving weight, Sebastian is standing strong, proud in the middle of a stranger's kitchen. That takes guts.." That said, I need to go to bed and sleep, because young Irish hotties need their beauty sleep. There's a spare bedroom that you can us-" He cuts himself off at the soft growl, and Jim glances up from watching the other man peel the orange to his face, noting the colour still in his eyes.

He looks merely agitated, untrustworthy, not that… Completely wild and dangerous look from before. "What? Mad that I'm offering you a bed?" And wow, that came out kind of… No, not thinking about it.

"I woke up from sleep earlier. _Danke_ for the offer. I will… Stay awake." Sebastian stays in between gnawing at the orange peel, for some reason having a rough time with it. Like he's never had one before. And isn't that a depressing thought.

Jim hums to himself, taking a deep breath as he thinks. "Fine. There's books in the study if you're bored. Good night, Seb. Turn the lights off when you go to sleep." He gives a short wave, a smile, leaving Sebastian chewing on an orange peel in the kitchen, a strange, deep sort of melancholy echoing from the auburn-gold hues that Jim can imagine would be imprinted in Sebastian's head.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Be prepared for some all-out panic next chapter, my dears. This one's a little short, I know. But. Story-Building. Some need to be shorter dialogue-chapters. Stay tuned for some inner-Jim. Kind of. And lots of clock symbolism, oh boy. Please review if you like, as it give me the support I need sometimes to continue these stories. Love. XO


	4. A Dead Body, Revenges not Injuries

Jim gets as far as his bedroom door before one by one all his veils of satin unwind, the cogs slowly unwinding and spurning into motion, faster and faster in time and rhythm with his heartbeat.

_'The hours of folly are measur'd by the clock, but of wisdom: no clock can measure.'_ He bites down on his fist to hold back a bubble of hysterical laughter, the turning of the gears jumbling and spreading all of his thoughts like ocean breeze, his consciousness and subconsciousness blending for a moment in a moment of panic.

The bed is queen-sized, covered in a dark green duvet and normally, Jim would take in every single detail and commit it to memory, or conjure up his pre existing facts about the room, but as it is, he allows himself to collapse onto the mattress, eyes staring at the ceiling but unseeing, breathing far too rapidly and quickly for this to be normal.

_Normal._ Fuck. Of course this isn't _normal._ He's never lost control of his own head like this before. Ever. He's a master of his own mind, remember? If there's one thing that he can be depended on, it's keeping a level head.

He placed to many _veils_ over his thoughts, then. He's losing control.

Jim squeezes his eyes shut, delving deep within his own… Fuck. What is it called? He's called it his Head Space for as long as he could remember, but maybe a new name would be better, more conclusive. He remembers reading about an article from the undergraduate chemistry major a couple years ago who delved into the practicalities and usages of a hypothetical, imagined sanctuary for thoughts and named his own Head Space a 'Mind Palace,' but that's too pretentious for even Jim.

Besides, it's not very constructive of a _chemistry_ major to be delving into the physiological conditions of a human mind.

The thought it fleeting, no more than a second before it skates away, and Jim's breath hitches, a swell of panic overtaking his entire body. It's too bloody difficult to enter his own Head Space when he's in such a state, but he tries, tries, visualizes cogs and wheels and gears and metal bits, shining and crystalline, big long tapestries and thin sheets of veils, and…

All awareness of the physical world evaporates. Oh, sure, he's probably still hyperventilating on the green-sheeted bed, but he doesn't _feel_ it, and that's what matter.

No. He opens his eyes and is pleased to see that he's in a small room, one side taken up by two desks of unsorted paperwork- _recent memories_, he whispers, but his voice doesn't come out of his mouth, it just… Is- overflowing at the sheer amount, the other side taken up by spare and broken cogs and gears, the metal tarnished or the springs broken.

He ignores the latter. The pile's always bigger every time he visualizes this place.

Frankly, he ignores the paperwork as well. He'll sort through it later, but then again, that's what he always says. If he's honest with himself, he hasn't actually sorted through his thoughts in much, much too long. Jim's on a hunt for something much different this time around. He really should put more security on his main thoughts, though. He squints at the small room, the entry-way, really, to his head, and all the paperwork vanishes, leaving behind what looks like a simple portable record player.

Jim steps forward and checks the drawers of the desks, and sure enough, there's several vinyl records sitting in there, marked carefully with little cogs and gears on the labels. Only several folders of paperwork remain, unsorted.

Curious.

He steps back to the door, noticing that the decor changed, too, going from a basic storage center to something more reminiscent of a library's quaint cosiness, with wood and brass parts, smelling old but well-lived in. Full of... Something.

The pile of broken parts didn't listen to his rearranging, sitting dull and lifeless in half the room.

The first time he'd come here, he was seven and his father had left the house. His mother and sisters said he would be back, but Jim knew better. He wasn't an idiot, actually, and it didn't take a genius to figure out he was gone for good. His mind had been such a torrent and torrent of emotions and a whirlwind of feral thoughts sliding and colliding, that he'd tried to imagine everything much more orderly.

His father had gifted him a small pocket watch two weeks earlier, after his birthday.

After that, it was simple.

Jim leaves the cupboard of a room, stepping out into the main floor of his mind, it seems, and there's been furniture and decor arrangements here, too. Perhaps he'd changed more than he thought. The last time he had been forced to retreat and sort through had been… Well, several months ago.

The vaguely stained carpet has disappeared for a well-used wood flooring, the warm cherry-toned wood gleaming and shining. That's new, and he likes it. There's several bohemian rugs, and Jim's pleased to find that it's a sitting room, mostly. There's several shelves of files and books, and… Several more record players with files of vinyl records.

He's curious, itching to figure out the difference between his book-thoughts, his file-thoughts and his vinyl-thoughts, but there's more pressing matters.

Like the fact that it feels like his skull is splitting open.

Jim gasps, trying to ignore the way he wants to fall away, out of his head, instead tracking the direction the chairs are facing and… Ah. Some of the pain lessens as one mystery is shown.

All the chairs- And there's several, face towards the back of a giant clock. His clocktower of a head. He idly wonders if there's more floors, tracing a long, pianist finger along the hem of one of the embroidered chairs, the entire room swelling in his vision.

The only sound is the ticking and clicking and whirs of the machinery moving, all the gears and cogs moving the exact way they need to, and Jim turns to stare at all the metal, enraptured by the smooth, clean gleaming metal, hundreds of thousands of parts that are_ him_. Not his thoughts or his feelings, but him as a person, and Jim feels his breath fall away at the idea.

It's such a novel concept, and Jim spares a few moments just staring at the circular movement of time, each click and tock signifying the passage of his life, right in front of him, fingers clenching tighter on the upholstery.

There's a wayward_ screech_ and Jim flinches, snapping his head in the direction of the noise, noticing that one of the cogs has gotten unhinged, causing its partner to spin around and around with no rhythm. There's a reed silk sheet lying discarded on the ground beside the two cogs, and Jim picks it up on his way over, pressing a finger over the center of the gear, then an entire palm.

Immediately, his breath hitches and he begins to hyperventilate, nothing but _panic, fear, danger_ running through him, the room throbbing and pulsing with the emotions, and one of the many record players in the room suddenly begins to play, a high-keening sound that's too fast for the type of record, scratching and reedy and _god._

There's too much at once and Jim falls away backwards, away from the cog, practically stumbling over all the furniture to get to the record player, fiddling with the needle until it stops, _stops_ damnit.

It's with the high-energy content of the room that Jim realizes that the vinyl records are pure emotions. There's no words, no sentences no letter, but pure_ sound,_ untranslatable into any human language, but understandable anyways. The high-pitched noises are _panic,_ the emotions he garnered from letting Sebastian in his home.

Jim's not sure how Sebastian has managed to bite so deeply into his head already.

He turns the record player off quickly, the room's noise cutting in half and he wanders back over to the broken gear, willing his breathing to go back to normal. Picking up the cloth on the floor, he sticks it through just enough, one layer to connect the two cogs but _stopping_ it, the gear shuddering to a stop.

No more noises, no more emotions, and the swelling of the room stops, goes back to normal. Distantly, Jim knows the room wasn't moving at all, but that it was him freaking the fuck out, but it's such a faraway concept at the moment that he doesn't press in on it, instead collapsing in one of the armchairs and staring at the back of the clock, breathing deeply.

Such pure, unadulterated panic and he turns into a mess. He twists his head around and notices that a good eighth of the cogs aren't even working, sheer or thick sheets thrown over them. A further look confirms that several of the bookshelves and files are also covered in _veils veils to hide everything away._

In the corner of the room, there's a cupboard- he thinks- that's completely shapeless due to the amount of sheets and drapes covering it, and thick ropes tying everything off.

Jim shivers despite himself, turning away from the lonesome cupboard, giving one more glance around him.

He wants to explore, but he can't stay in his head too long, not when the very _thing_ that caused his panic is peeling an orange in his kitchen. He needs, answers, yes, but the easiest would be to not lock himself away in his head when a creature is running a muck around his house, with very noticeable mood changes.

_If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise._

_"Jim?"_

Starting, Jim looks around wildly, before there's an odd shake and-

* * *

There's a paw of a hand shaking him roughly, and Jim blinks as he sits up suddenly, eyes widening as he takes in Sebastian. Sebastian, who is currently on his hands and knees on Jim's bed, one hand bracing him and the other shaking the professor roughly.

Sebastian, who's auburn hair is shining and the great swaths of skin on his back are rippling of muscle and...

"Wh-Stop, you giant _brute._" Jim is carefully not staring at the feline way his counterpart is sitting on his bed, the green flash of his eyes in the half-light concerned and unsure, almost frightened.

Sebastian sits back on his feet, blinking at Jim cautiously, removing his hand to settle on his knee. "You were in a panic." He says quietly, voice soft in the sudden quiet that's enveloped. No more ticks _or_ tocks, damn, _damn._

"Yes, I… Thank you, Sebastian." Jim huffs out a breath, sitting back from Sebastian to mirror his position, settling heavily on the sheets.

"You weren't there." Sebastian cocks his head, narrowing his eyes curiously, and god but they are utterly, completely feral and Jim cannot just get over that, can't even think of why such eyes could possibly exist.

"Yes, I was, I've right here sin- Oh. You mean. Lucid, conscious, blah blah. No, no I was in my head. Trying to think through some things." He's rambling again. It seems to be his default setting around the man, and he wants to stop, but he knows if he did, he'd start blushing like an adolescent girl.

"You seemed scared."

"No I wasn't. That's rude, awfully assumptious of you, Seb, my dear." Jim forces out, quickly standing up off the bed and away from Sebastian, who's still _sitting on his bed_ like he fucking owns it.

Sebastian growls, looking annoyed for a moment, eyes flashing darkly. "No. You were in a panic. I'm not wrong." He sits up straighter, tracking Jim with his eyes, fingers plucking at the fabric of the bed. He seems to do that a lot, the idle twitches.

"Okay, I was wrong. Sorry, whoops, I'm indebted to you, yada yada, but like I said. Bed timmeeee. So get out, wild man. Go curl up by the fire place or something… Hey what were you doing in my room, anyways?"

Slowly sliding to stand up, Jim suddenly notices that Sebastian has forgone the sheet. So he's _naked_. Completely naked and he was on his _bed_, and oh fucking _Christ._ This is worse than the _snow. _This is fucking hot. Jim simply cannot deal with a naked feral man right after he just shut down panicking about said person.

"I was trying to find the study you mentioned. Books. I wanted to read books."

Jim wants to say he didn't know that Seb could read- and really, _how_ could he, living in the forest constantly- but all that pops out is, "Hold on. You need clothes." He stomps over to the wardrobe, collecting a pair of big sweatpants that might fit the other man- he's taller, by a lot, but the sweatpants have always been much, much too large- and a green-knit sweater, practically throwing them at Sebastian.

His counterpart catches it all deftly, blinking before shucking all of it on, and_ fuck_ but the green sweater wasn't a good idea, because his eyes are now literal pools of sea-green, and _wow_, that poetry is truly horrid. Jim needs to stop right now. "Okay, good. You have clothes. See you in the morning." He practically pushes the man out of the room, Sebastian not arguing so much as looking confused, shutting the door behind him.

Unlocked, by the way, just in case Seb needs something. He's putting _a lot,_ and he means a lot of trust in the wild man who sometimes looks like he wants to murder Jim.

Or take him.

He thinks hysterically, for a moment, the old poems again. _'The fox condemns the trap, not himself.' But I'm not a fox, am I?_

There's a huff on the other side of the door, but the blighter seems to get it, as there's the sound of footsteps receding in the direction of his study. Jim sighs in relief, scrubbing a hand down his face, ignoring the not-so calm tightness of his pants. Speaking of, he undresses and puts on night clothes quickly, another pair of sweats for himself, considering he apparently needs a little room.

And that is wrong on _so_ many levels.

He'll give himself an hour to sort through his thoughts in the morning, but right now, with his emotions running high- _except for the panic, I fixed that_- it wouldn't make any logical sense and he'd only end up making strange, disgusting conclusions.

Jim sighs, rolls over in his bed and tries to sleep.

He dreams of magpies with green and purple feathers interlocking with the black, flying high and soaring over the forest, ever reaching for a magnificent metallic clock-tower in the distant. Below him runs a tiger of gold, green eyes gleaming in the darkness as he growls. Their minds intermingle with green-blue-black-purple, all coalescing into scarlet and silver, spinning closer and closer. A dangerous mixture of dancing and hunting, of haunting and wooing.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Do you like Jim's Clocktower head? Maybe I'll get into Sebastian later, but hey. Just remember that Jim is an unreliable narrator, please. He may take some things in stride and take other things way too seriously, but... Well. We'll get into that later. He's a strange mind. All those, veils, hmm? Thank you for reading. Please take the time to review, so I know that at least someone is reading this.

Also, some good music for this chapter? Lose Your Soul by Dead Man's Bones. Also Lacrimosa. Maybe I'll link up my playlist to write to soon.


	5. This the Wine, This the Bread

It's a flash of teeth and blood, and that should be terrifying, but it's _not_. No. It's _hot_. Because the teeth are gnawing at his collarbone, mumbles and grunts and growls escaping the man- the creature- on top of him, slender hips rutting on top of him like a horny little animal, strong arms pinning him in place.

He's the victim, it seems, and it's all Jim can do but let out a needy little moan, wriggling in place, staring up at deep, deep eyes, blue-green washed out into that feral, wild _grey_ that he knows to watch out for now. That he craves, wants.

The only thing in the room is the smell of sex and sweat, the heady feeling of _want_ and _possession_ floating through the air. It doesn't take an empath to feel it all, and _god_, but it's making going to make Jim cry from need. The creature on top of him lifts his head and grins, and there's blood all over his jaw. That grin is nothing normal, nothing civilized, but the triumphant, pleasured thing of a man who's won, whose bestial instincts have won out.

All of the colours of the room heighten for sheer seconds, noises drowning out into a deep radio buzz of sound, and then the colour washes out and…

And there's the peel of a bell, of ticking, and everything fades away.

* * *

The first worrying thing that Jim notices when he wakes up is that there's the faint sound of breathing, and it's not coming from him.

That, in and of itself, is mildly worrying, but perhaps more so is the fact that there's a lump at the foot of his bed, on his feet. He kicks up, sitting against the headboard and blearily looking through the dark to see… A man? Oh. Oh, right. The wild man. Sebastian.

Who Jim is pretty sure nearly bit his nose off last night, and who prowled around his house at all hours. The man who grew angry at his questions and who_ lives in the fucking woods._

_Shit._

He was half-hoping that the whole ordeal was a hallucination. After all, it would be easier to deal with losing his mind completely and utterly than dealing with a man who doesn't know what a bath is.

But no, the most worrying thing at the moment has to be the fact that he's popped a boner, considering that _vivid_ dream he was just having. Which. Jesus, he'll have to examine that later, because is he really so desperate after a six month dry spell that he's fantasizing about a man he's not even sure is _human?_

He kicks warily out, hissing, "What the fuck are you _doing_ in here?" and the man groans, stretching out his arm to reach around and push Jim's foot away, huffing at the annoyance and laying his head back down. Seriously. What the shit. Is he literally a giant cat? A man at all? "Were you reincarnated into a fully grown man from a cat?" He whines, kicking out again, harsher this time, to make his point.

And now, finally, the man grumbles under his breath, huffing again, raising his head to blink blearily at Jim, glaring as though_ Jim_ is being the rude one here. Sebastian swipes a hand in the air, trying to wave him off, mumbling in too-fast German for him to pick up on. He growls softly, without any bite in it, just a complaint, really.

Jim's not going to examine how he can already tell the difference between Sebastian non-lingual forms of communication.

"_Schlafen._ Go away…"

Jim takes a hold of the waving hand, throwing it roughly on Sebastian's chest. "Seriously. Up. Explain." He kicks out with his feet again, well aware of how petulant and childlike he's being, kicking the wild beast with a man's face. The professor, in the mornings, is not one to act like a rational adult, and his mood can be darkened by anything unless coffee is thrusted in his face. He feels a sudden twist of anger in his gut, of rage, and his only thought is _seriously? I just woke up_ before he's placing a _veil_ over his emotions, trying to blanket out ridiculously strong feelings and impulses.

It's in everyone's best interests, really.

Sebastian groans, grumbling again, before he sits up suddenly, staring at Jim balefully, lips drawn down into a frown. At this point, the wild tiger looks more like a disgruntled kitten, and Jim can't help the snort of laughter that escapes him. Forgive him, he's hardly a happy person in the morning, so let him get his amusement where he can.

"I got tired. You are safe. So I slept near you." Sebastian says after a few moments, shrugging as if that's the most normal thing in the world. Jim narrows his eyes, giving a 'what the fuck' expression (or the best approximation that he can), before he remembers a certain excited portion of his body.

He gathers as many of the blankets as he can in his lap, not leaving eye contact with Seb. Sebastian. Jesus, when did he start nicknaming him? "That is the _worst_ reason I have _ever_ heard." He knows his voice is a bit dazed, out of it, but he woke up with a grown-ass man on his bed. So fuck off.

"Your blankets also smell good. They smell like you." Sebastian continues, as though that's normal, as though people actually say things like that. That sense of _otherness_ pulses through Jim's senses again, and the professor in him wakes up with an excited lurch, questions popping into his mind.

"Um… Thank you." Is all he says instead, rolling his eyes. "I've bathed more than once in my life, I'll have you know."

"No. The… Soap smells bad. _You_ smell good." Sebastian gives a sniff to the air as though demonstrating his point, and Jim realizes numbly just how sweaty he is.

He normally doesn't dream, and to have two dreams in one night (One a little more vivid than the other)? Well, it put his mind into a flurry, obviously. Jim vows to visit his Clocktower later to see if anything is progressing, to explore a little more. And when did he start calling it that? Oh well. It works.

But… Pressing matter, ladies and gents. He's sweating and Sebastian is sniffing him and _enjoying_ it. This is too surreal. His mind flashes back to when the feral man snuffled into his hair on their first meeting… Just last night? God, it feels longer than that.

"People don't just say that, Seb." Jim replies, his 'I know what I'm talking about' voice sounding prissy and annoyed. He stretches, climbing out of bed, and shivers. It must have dropped at least twenty degrees in the cottage since he fell asleep. Which… Makes sense. Normally he doesn't sleep for more than three hours at a time and can keep the fires going through the house.

He rummages around in the armoire again, pulling out another orange sweater that he throws on, trying to get all the shivers out of his system. Jim has been told by as many colleagues as could stand to speak to him that he dresses like a giant dork most of the time. It's usually a day after such comments that he'll come dressed immaculately in one of several suits he owns, just to shut them up, but for the most part, it's true. The amount of sweaters James H Moriarty owns is absolutely ridiculous.

"I just… Did." A voice comes from his ear, and Jim jumps at least two feet back. He hadn't noticed it, but Sebastian had climbed off the bed after him, standing right behind him. The auburn head is tilting in a curious fashion, and once again, Jim has to grit his teeth and try to remember how _vicious_-looking, how utterly _feral_ he was last night.

It's rather difficult when he looks about as harmless as a rabbit.

"Whatever." He retorts, when his heart isn't beating out of his chest, a thousand palpitations a minute. "I forgot you're a cultureless, uncivilized twat." The words may be cruel, but Jim's slightly astonished the find that he's said them with warmth, with a teasing tone that he hasn't used since… Well. It's been a while, honestly.

Sebastian narrows his eyes at the words, stepping back a little. "You're rude."

Jim snorts, grabbing his phone off the bedside table and moving around Seb to make his way to the kitchen. "Yes. And Hitler was a horrible man. You're stating the obvious here, darling." There's more tease in his voice than he meant, and damn but Jim's going to have to watch how he talks around him. It's too close to… _Flirting_.

"Who is Hitler?" Are the words that follow him as he steps into the hallway, and when Jim stops moving, Sebastian collides into his back, evidently having loped right long his heels.

"_Ooof._ You _brute."_ Jim mumbles, stumbling forward and almost falling, except for the fact that… Oh. For fuck's sake. Sebastian has threaded an arm around his waist to keep_ him_ from falling to the ground, the man's reflexes apparently too strong for him to fall down and be the damsel in distress. No, of course it seems the Irish Prince is going to be the one in need of saving.

_'My Spectre around me night and day, like a wild beast guards my way...'_

Sebastian didn't let go, glancing down at Jim with that still-tired gaze, blinking rapidly as though unsure of what had just happened. Which, admittedly, made sense considering Jim is the one that stopped moving. "What?" Seb mumbles, that rumble of a voice right above Jim's ear and, _Jesus,_ but he shivers.

He's allowed the touching for far too long. He shouldn't be falling for strange men, especially if they came from the woods in a blizzard and tracked snow into his house. It's just because he's been cooped up inside for a while, that's all. That's all.

Jim's so busy rationalizing, that he hasn't even moved away from Sebastian's hold, but he blinks his way back to reality, pushing harshly away. "No. Gah. I can't believe… _Hitler? Really?_ You speak fucking _German_ and you don't even know who _Hitler_ is?" He shakes his head, jumping at least two feet away from Sebastian and staring at him incredulously. They've hardly even made it out of the bedroom door.

"I…" Sebastian trails off, tilting his head and evidently trying to think through his memories. Bless him. Really. The poor sap is an idiot, that's it. "I do not remember."

"What _do_ you remember? I mean, you must have had _some_ sort of education if you're bilingual." Which is another oddity to think through- what's a German-speaking man doing in the woods of Ireland, anyways?

Sebastian has gone silent, eyes growing stormy, before he grunts out, "Three years." Honestly, Jim's just pleased he knows how to tell time.

But still. That made no sense. "Beg pardon?" Jim asks, knowing very well that his voice sounds rude.

Sebastian growls under his breath, averting his gaze. His hands play at the hem of his sweater, that nervous tick back again, before he says, "It's how long I can remember. Nothing before."

Jim blinks. This is… A curious development. Very interesting, and honestly makes a lot of sense. Considering he doesn't seem to know much about human culture or societal expectations, but he still carted around _clothes_ and knew language and has a name, it makes sense that Sebastian was at one point with the knowledge of it, but suffered from some form of severe amnesia. But to regress so far, to the point of no memories whatsoever? That doesn't sound right.

In a surprising twist, Jim files it away for later.

He's often been told that he's a flighty person, in both energy and home. And it was true on both accounts. Jim could never stay in one home for more than a year or two before moving somewhere else, getting himself settled in some other college to teach at, building himself an impersonal little flat. Never anything personal, except his books and whatever personal things could fit into three boxes. Always so clinical and distant, and maybe that was why he never felt he belonged.

But he was also distant and flighty in his thoughts, jumping from one branch of thought to another. Most just took it to be his off-brand of energetic antics, but really, it was because he had so many _questions_ so many ideas filtering through his skull that he filed everything away to look at for later. There was a reason the cupboard in the Clocktower was so cluttered last night.

The negative effect being that he never seems to dig deep enough, care deep enough, _feel_ deep enough. He's been called cold and distant all his life, cruel and rude.

It stopped being sad when he realized it was true.

"Well, aren't you a poor dear. That's strange, though. Did you learn anything in the books you read last night?" Is all that Jim responds with, willing away those nasty memories and ideas with a literal hand wave. His voice is warm again, in a way that defies the outside winter chills. He's being courteous, is all, changing the subject before Sebastian gets all weird again.

Sebastian grimaces at that, giving a small ironic twist to his lips. "I read _The Call of the Wild."_

Jim stares at him for a moment, eyes wide. The hall is very quiet for a moment before he doubles over laughing, clapping Sebastian on the back and starting for the kitchen again. _Jesus._ Jack fucking London pulling on the ironic twist of a lifetime. Forget not knowing who Hitler is, this takes the case of ridiculousness.

Making sure that Sebastian is hot on his heels, Jim steps into the kitchen, looking out of the window over the sink and grimacing. Way too much snow, and he just wants to shiver looking at it. There's no way anyone's leaving for at least a week.

Sebastian seats himself with that careful feline grace, picking up another book that he must have deposited on the table while Jim was sleeping. Walt Whitman or something. Lovely. The man's going to sprout deep-rooted sexual feelings for nature.

And he should _really_ not be thinking about sex in front of Sebastian.

"Right." He murmurs, sighing at the very prospect as he leans against the sink. He just knows that spending a week at least with Seb is going to drive him mad. madder than he was already told to be. "Does breakfast sound good?" He tries to stay cheerful, because honestly, Sebastian is interesting, is curious, but there's still the hidden thrum of panic in his every step, and even Jim's not sure why anymore.

As if to ignore every piece of evidence lending towards _dangerous,_ Sebastian looks up from leafing through the poems, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth as he reads, a small pleasant smile on his face. "Whatever you want, _Herr_ Jim." Is that a thread of amusement in the man's tone? Is he making a joke for once? Well. Miracles do happen. "I think food is probably for the best, though. It's good to pack on food before going back out where there's none." And aw, he says that as if Jim's going to kick him out in this weather.

He's not _that_ cruel.

But evidently he is. To himself, at least. Because despite his emotions saying _danger, danger_ in more than one way- it's a compromise to his carefully laid-out laws of walls and bricks to hide himself away- Sebastian is looking up at Jim with the most adorable fucking face that anyone who is over thirty should have a right to have. And Jim is eating it up.

God, Jim Moriarty is going to die in this house, at the hands of an auburn-haired wild man.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

First of all, FANART! WOWOW. Jim Veils His Thoughts

Second of all, I forgot to cite the poems from earlier chapters, but I will begin to do so from now on. The snippet is from Broken Love. Most of the poems referenced will be William Blake poems, because evidently, Professor Moriarty really liked him in his college years or something.

Okay, so enjoy my really short dream-sex, and I really hope you enjoy this chapter. Review, let me know what you liked and what you didn't like, so I can improve. If I messed something up, please feel free to let me know. We're getting closer and closer to an actual 'hey maybe they should kiss' moment or something of the sort. I hope you are all enjoying this!


	6. Cruelty Knits a Snare

Eggs are frying in the pan with a delicious _crackle_ and _pop_, and there's bacon in the other pan. Jim would normally not bother with such a large breakfast, or breakfast at all for that matter, but he has a guest. Despite any preconceived notions of Professor Moriarty, he treats a guest with kindness. Or. Whatever the closest approximation of it is.

Sebastian is still thumbing through Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_, evidently enraptured by every little poem in there. He's a fast reader, which honestly surprises Jim. After all, it's not like the man has had the chance to read anytime in the past three years, and he seems to have forgotten most of his other knowledge. It's a surprise, but it's nice. It means that Jim can force literature onto him and maybe make some semblance of a man.

That sounds like a fun experiment, honestly, but there he goes trying to make people into _things_, again. Got to watch that.

"You know…" Jim says, nursing a cup of tea as he watches the food cook on the stove, "There's a lot of subtext in Whitman's work. It was rumoured that he participated in homosexual acts. It's speculated that he was pansexual." Why the fuck was he spouting this sort of thing to a beast who probably doesn't care? A fucking Freudian slip. _Jesus, Jim, talk about letting yourself unwind from your protections after a spot of tea, _he thinks bitterly. How very… British. Gah, disgusting.

He needs to shut his mouth before it starts doing anything more with it he'll regret.

Sebastian looks up from the spot he's reading, putting a finger on the line he was at. "You know a lot about him. Are you a fan?"

Blinking, Jim catches the wry twist of Sebastian's lips and can't help but gape at him slightly. He's already picked up on humour, after not even a day in the confines of civilization? "Well, sort of. I'm a literature professor, Seb. I teach him to students." Poetry was definitely one of his favourites to teach to the students. About half of them would completely blank out, but the other half would connect immediately, finding a liking to the raw emotions that floated through.

Jim had always found it ironic that he liked the raw emotions the best, considering he knew his own emotional capabilities were deficient at best.

He'd studied maths in college for his first couple years before he got bored with the entire subject- it was too easy, too final. There was only one answer, and though it might take a while, that definitive answer was all there was. Maths had always come simple to him, but it came _too_ simple to him. He'd never be able to teach it to someone who would have trouble with it, because he would get impatient. Probably not the best to teach.

With literature, though… He'd managed to concoct dozens of different meanings and answers to his questions, all depending on how he took a word or a sentence, spinning it in different context. It made his head whir and spin. It was a great problem to solve. Suffice to say, his library was huge and sprawling and not at all healthy for a man to own.

"Oh. '_Lehrer'_ Moriarty." Sebastian replied, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he continued reading. And thank _god,_ because he missed the shiver that passed through Jim at that tone, at that mouth singing German in his goddamned kitchen. _Professor Moriarty._

He curses when he turns back around and sees the eggs are beginning to burn, taking them off the stove quickly and throwing the bacon down as well, fingers moving rapidly. Trying to ignore the way Sebastian is sitting at the table and looking over at him with amusement glittering in his eyes. "Here." He says roughly, pushing the plate over to the man on his way to his own seat.

Sebastian pokes at it with the fork, scowling down at the utensil before shoveling the food down his throat as though it's been his first meal in days. Maybe it is, honestly, considering how skinny the man is, all of his ribs in stark relief against his belly. It can't be healthy.

"Whoa, slow down there, Speedy Gonzalez." Jim chuckled, taking a small corner of the bacon and chewing on it in distaste. He's never been a 'food' person. Never understood how people could get so utterly enraptured by eating. He just ate when he couldn't concentrate on anything else, when his body deemed it absolutely necessary. Because of this, perhaps he's a bit too skinny, too. Maybe he can use this winter hideout to get meat on both their bodies. And really? Since when did he decide taking care of Sebastian was his responsibility? "The food won't run away from you."

Sebastian glances up at him and scowls, mouth full of food. "I haven't eaten in a long time, _Lehrer._"

"Yes, but we use table manners when we eat. And we say 'please' and 'thank you.'" Jim snorts, taking a deep drink of his tea as he watches the other man. He's well aware of how pretentious and snooty his voice sounds at the moment, thank you very much.

Who… Grunts and goes back to eating, mumbling around a mouthful of egg, "_Danke._"

Jim clucks his tongue, thinking for a moment. He's going to have to teach the man some sort of basis of manners, of civilization if he's going to stay in the house with him. There is simply no way he'll survive in a cottage if his counterpart is being an utter _animal._ "God, you're a beast." He snorts when Sebastian all but shoves the bacon into his maw of a mouth, apparently attempting to see how much of one thing he can put in his mouth at one time.

Really, Jim? At the breakfast table?

Sebastian actually goes still at that, swallowing his food slowly before looking over at Jim. And. His eyes have gone flat, washing out to grey, almost, and Jim is going to panic, right here and now because this is exactly like last night. Before he dreamt about those possessive, bestial eyes. The man leans forward across the table, hands braced on the table's edge, and his lips draw back from his teeth in what could be a smile, but what Jim knows to be an animalistic attempt at a threat. "Am I?" Sebastian asks slowly, nose inches from Jim's face again.

Breathing is difficult this close to a bloody predator, and whatever he does breath out hitches in sudden panic, his heart fluttering so fast and loud, that Jim is sure Sebastian can sense it. He wills himself into calming down, _veil veil,_ before he meets Sebastian's eyes as calmly as he can, and is about to say something but…

But there's something in those feral eyes that makes Jim completely forget about any semblance of words, of sentence.

_Want._

That's all that's floating through those eyes, a deep and dark sense of _want_ and _mine_, all mingled with the way the that predator looks at prey, a wolf to a rabbit. _Prey._

The look is the exact same thing that filtered through his dream, and Jim feels himself gasp with whatever remaining air is in his lungs, staring back at him with wide eyes. _He can smell fear, he knows it, he senses it_ is running through his head in repetitions, but Jim can't stop his heart from beating so fast, can't just will away his fear. It's too deep, running greater than panic.

Sebastian leans forward even closer, fluid movements bringing his lips right behind Jim's ear, before he murmurs in that gutteral, rumbling purr of a voice, "Thank you for the meal,_ Lehrer_ Moriarty. You're much too kind." Soft lips brush against his ear for just a moment, before the contact is gone, the huff of breath disappearing. He leans back in his chair, quirking a small, dangerous smile, before he shovels the rest of his food into his mouth, like nothing else happened.

Jim is frozen in his seat, a hand raising to touch at his ear, brown eyes staring over where Sebastian is hunched over his food. This is… Too surreal. Too dangerous. Jesus, but Sebastian can't possibly be a man, he's a wolf, a tiger, something primal and vicious.

_'And it bears the fruit of Deceit, ruddy and sweet to eat; and the Raven his nest has made in its thickest shade.'_

His steps are clumsy and unsure, but he steps up from the table and dumps the rest of his food down the sink, trying not to let the _fear fear_ overwhelm him, completely destroy whatever fragile mindset he has.

Sebastian has gone back to his book, flipping pages idly, while Jim leans against the counter and pretends not to be staring, not to be waiting for him to explode again.

"For all your talk of 'civilization' professor, your staring seems rather hypocritical." He says after a while, twisting his face to look at Jim with a small, amused smile. His eyes have regained from that ridiculous _want want_ colour (_Lust_, Jim thinks, _call it what it is)_, but there's still a hint of darkness in them, of primal horror hiding within.

Jim swallows down bile, and says, "Yes. Well. Forgive me. I haven't seen anyone reading Whitman in a while. It's reminding me of my youth." His voice is steady, and thank god for that, because the Irish lilt when scared? Not dignified in the slightest. Not one tiny bit. No, he's steady and smooth. Because if there's one thing that Jim Moriarty can do, it's lie with a straight face. Both to others and himself.

And how did the adorable, bed-headed Sebastian suddenly turn into a fearful dangerous beast in a split second?

Sebastian hums, closing the book with a conclusive _thump_ and twisting to look at Jim with a smile on his face. He purrs, "I think-"

But Jim isn't listening to him, blurting out, "I need firewood if we're going to stay warm. It's supposed to drop another twenty degrees. Coldest it's gotten in a long time you know. We need to be stocked up. I'll get you warm clothes." There was no way he was going to let Sebastian suggest anything to him, not after _that._ No. He needed to get the man away from him, for a while. Just... _Away. _

Sebastian stares at him for a while, growling softly at the command, before taking a deep breath, nodding. "Okay. Why not you too?" Evidently, he remembered he's the guest and therefor indebted to Jim. Oh, right, he'll have to use that later.

"You're the wild man, here, I'm just a professor at Wales. Go flex your muscles, _brute._" He's being dangerous again, baiting the beast, but he wants Sebastian out for just a little bit, so he can collect his thoughts and take a shower and not worry about potentially becoming the mincemeat puppet of a lawless man.

He scurries out of the room, going to the closet and pulling out two large coats and a pair of boots. The boots belonged to his father, well the whole cottage did, really, so they're bigger than Jim's own feet. Gloves and hats and scarves, all arranged in a neat little pile. It looks like Sebastian might need it. He brings the supplies back to the kitchen, dropping them in front of the feral man, giving a thin smile.

"You can just pile it by the front door, I guess. I'll carry them in later to dry. Now shoo, Tiger, I don't want to freeze all day."

Sebastian glares at him for a moment, but it's half-hearted at best, and then he stands and shucks on all the clothes that Jim brought in, making himself a bundled mess of black brown and green, all that's visible his eyes staring with amusement. With everything else covered up, it's easy to see the deep, dark circles under his eyes, the hidden walls that clamp down shut on most eveything. He turns head over heels around, and is about to walk out the door when Jim calls out, "And don't you_ dare_ track _snow_ into my cabin!"

Jim is surprised, faintly, to hear a loud bark of laughter, carefree and easy in a way that his expression didn't really convey. He's so fucking confusing, but first. First. He sighs, cleans up the breakfast mess and tries not to think about the fact that Sebastian basically kissed his ear earlier.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

I have so much homework to do today, so I decided to write another chapter instead. Goooo procrastination. Anyways, I hope you guys are enjoying. Things might get a little dangerous the next chapter or two. I have two ways to go with this, one very, very dark and the other... Still dark, but not as much. I don't know yet. We'll figure it out, hmm?

Please enjoy, review, yada. I appreciate all the support.

Also, if you ever wanted to see updates on my progress or just want to talk to me, you can email me at murderingmoriarty , or find me on tumblr.


	7. Thou Shalt Not' Writ Over the Door

Jim lets out a deep breath as soon as the front door closes, passing a hand over his mouth as he tried to collect himself. That… That just happened. Again. Once again, he let his guard down and he nearly got… Well. What? What did he nearly get? Sure, Sebastian's teeth were flashing with danger, eyes flat with that- No, not thinking about it- but what did he actually do? Kissed his ear?

He stands in the kitchen for another minute before he steps over to the table, picking up the ancient green-bound copy of _Leaves of Grass_ and thumbing through it, noticing that one of the pages is doggy-eared. Presumably where Sebastian had left off. Tsk, tsk wild man, marking up someone else's book.

The page that's doggy eared is well through the half-way mark of the volume, and Jim skims through the words, willing himself not to think of anything, _anything_ at the poem. But still, his breath falls away again as he reads through it, an involuntary shiver running down his spine.

_Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that_

_you be my poem,_

_I whisper with my lips close to your ear,_

_I have loved many women and men, but I love none_

_better than you._

Jim places the book back down without a sound, making sure not to disturb the place where Sebastian was at. He blinks rapidly, trying not to think, at all, trying not to panic. Because that… That sounds familiar. Not in so many words but- _lips ghosting against his ear, breath coming out in a slow puff of air_- still, familiar. Deja vu.

He shudders. Then forces himself down the hallways and into the bathroom, mind practically buzzing with new information, new emotions, _everything._ It's overwhelming, really. His mind spins around, until he sits heavily on the toilet seat, throwing his face into his hands.

If he's absolutely, completely honest with himself, the _panic, fear_ that Jim is feeling isn't completely caused by Sebastian.

No. When he visited his Clocktower of a mind the previous night, it became stunningly obvious to him on a blatant level that he's been pushing things down for far too long, covering things up with thin, fragile fabrics. Sebastian is just the icing on the cake, a mental test for him to go through before he can heal himself.

He's been numbing himself to the point of mental instability and it doesn't take a genius to figure that out.

Or something. He might be imprinting on fiction novels, again.

But still. He's on borrowed time, and then the brute will be back with firewood, and he'll have to_ interact_ and _converse_ with him, and try not to lose his head. Jim has a hard time talking with people who knew how to converse for god's sake, let along this basic, primal thing. Sure, people find him charismatic if he wants to be, but it's a facade. He _was_ actually a fairly decent actor in high school. He played Hamlet, at one point, which considering now seems rather ironic.

Sighing, he stands up and strips, turning the shower on. Glances at himself in the mirror and presses hands on his cheekbones. Maybe he does need to eat more- he's getting awfully thin, and it's not because of grading papers. His face is getting a little too gaunt, large doe eyes looking even more massive than normal. All in all, Jim is looking even more disconcerting and manic than normal. He's really starting to think this winter vacation was not a good idea.

But again, if he's honest with himself, this is something that's been running for far longer than just a week.

He glances down at his stomach, too, noticing the high ridge of his hips, the valley where his stomach used to be. Believe it or not, but he used to be pudgy, used to have at least a little weight on him. It slowly disappeared with each consecutive move.

Poking at the absence of any fat, Jim thinks idly that maybe little Molly Hooper, the undergrad who was studying in the forensic department was right to try to feed him sweets everytime he made the trip down there. And seeing her concerned look whenever he refused- _No thank you, sweet, I'm much too busy to eat. Go give them to that undergrad smoking like it's his job_- made a lot more sense. Or maybe it was a look of panic, considering he'd figured out her deadly little crush on the frankly ridiculously-haired Chemistry undergrad.

Well. That decides it, back on point. Goal number one is to put some manners and civilization into Sebastian. Goal number two is to put meat on both of their bones, soften them up. Goal three is to try to stay sane and goal number four is to get Sebastian to remember.

Why Jim feels he has such an obligation to the man, he has no idea. Well. No, he has a slight idea, considering the very excited part of his body this morning.

Stepping into the hot spray of the shower, Jim almost weeps at how amazing it feels. He hadn't realized just how cold he truly is, and the scalding water running rivulets down his skin is absolutely heavenly. Forget the blizzard, forget the bloody _snow_, just… The warmth is spreading through him and it's beautiful.

"Of _fuck_, there is a god…" He murmurs as he runs a hand through his hair, steam clouding his vision.

Once he gets used to the spray, he washes quickly, wanting to be out of the shower by the time Sebastian gets back into the house.

Idly, he wonders if Sebastian has ever even taken a shower. Or really, for that matter, anything relating to a bath like the one he'd taken last night. Of course, though, that thought hits right before he's ready to soap his body, and he knocks his head back into the spray, groaning.

Sebastian. The man with the russet-hair and innocent disposition and dangerous, feral qualities that, despite him trying very hard _not_ to, Jim can't help but find the teeniest bit sexy. And at that thought, his cock twitches and he glances down, jaw ticking as he thinks about it. "Now, now, boy hold on, at least."

Perhaps goal number three, staying sane, is out the window by now, if he's talking to himself again.

Jim turns the knob, making the spray hotter as he rinses, lathering soap onto his body and just trying to ignore the interested twitch his cock makes when he cleans every inch of himself. If Sebastian could smell him earlier, he wants to make himself nice and clean, not sweaty.

Which. Isn't helping. Jim rinses the last of the soap away, out of his hair, and thinks idly that Sebastian had slept on his _bed_ because he _smelled_ good. "Oh, fuck…" He breathes, just remembering that _bedhead_ and the way the half-asleep man had looked just waking up on his bed. How he'd scampered out after him, hot on his heels, like an overenthusiastic lay who wanted nothing more than to just latch on and stay forever.

_"Jesus…"_ How has he gotten this deep into his head already? How, damnit? It shouldn't be possible, considering the distance that Jim places himself from people, only fucking when he wanted to, when he needed a lay. But feeling the need to pull one out over a Tiger of a man? Fuck.

Fuck, indeed.

Jim gives in, palming a hand over his cock and shivering at the sudden contact. His cock had somehow, in the midst of his woolgathering, drawn itself to full-attention, and he lets out a low, "Nng…," the sound nearly washed away by the sound of the shower spray, a pleasant hum in the back of his focus.

He grabs at his cock, needy, and begins to pump up and down at the image of Sebastian, green-blue eyes peering intently at him, and … Oh fuck, but he was naked yesterday and Jim _knows_ exactly how he looks. Oh, well that was practically a tame image. Jim Moriarty was not going to come like a teenage boy over one image of Sebastian.

No. He's the master of his own mind, remember, and he will concoct something better than the basics.

So really, he shouldn't be surprised when his dream from this morning springs into his head. And, that's better.

Green-blue eyes are exchanged by demanding, predatory grey in his head, Sebastian's hands reaching to pin Jim in place. And Jim would groan and moan and make beautiful noises for him, (And his hand is moving at a much faster beat now, the sound of the shower and the cold of the tiles all but gone from his awareness) while Sebastian would smother his face with a bruising kiss, gnawing and biting at his lips and fisting a hand in his hair, everything brutal and crushing.

Sebastian would taste like smoke and wood and_ heat_, tongue probing and tasting, hands strong and gentle but harsh and, yes it's a fucking contradiction, but it doesn't fucking matter because…

Jim jerks his head back into the shower spray at the image of Sebastian rutting up against him, those prominent hipbones digging into soft flesh, muscles jittering and shivering in a way that isn't the slowly-cooling water before he loses track of time for a while, babbling incoherently to himself and groaning, moaning at the image of Sebastian chewing, gnawing on his earlobe, and…

Oh.

_Oh, shit._

There's come washing away off his fingers from the stream of lukewarm water, and really, when did that happen? He must have really spaced out, because… _Christ_. At least it hadn't hit the wall like he was some kid. Jim takes a few steadying breath, leaning against the tiles of the shower as he calms himself, body shaking slightly still from the comedown.

The water really is starting to get cold, though, and the shivering simply can't be him still coming down from the…

Well, honestly, _what the fuck was that_. He had just… "Well. Good job, I guess, Sebastian. You've definitely made your presence known…" His voice is weak, hysterical, and he doesn't want to think about it, not one bit.

He waits a bit more under the stream of the water, washing himself a second time just because he's a peculiar, picky sort of man, before he twists the knob, turning the shower off and wrapping himself in a towel. Glances at his face in the mirror again, patting his red-tinted cheeks, and notices the haunted but yearning look in his eyes.

_'And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, and binding with briars my joys and desires.'_

_Fuck._

He is so, utterly, completely fucked.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Sorry not sorry. I know I know, I'm not very good at these scenes, but I _needed_ tooooo...

Obviously, the one quote is from _Leaves of Grass_ by Walt Whitman. The other one, at the bottom is from _The Garden of Love_ by William Blake.

Please review, tell me how to improve, if the story is good (wait what plot) etc etc.


	8. We Convince By Our Presence

The landscape is completely barren in that frozen, cold way that winter can be, impersonal and distant. Sounds are muffled under snow, muting and quieting every last sound, drowning thoughts and emotions under an impenetrable blanket, a thick tapestry that confines and locks down.

It's strange then, Sebastian muses to himself, that the air is so crisp in the winter, with such a hard bite to it that the lungs scream from its caress. the limbs shy away from its embrace. Sebastian growls under his breath, the exhalation coming out in steamy white puffs, eyes flashing around the forest floor, looking for smaller bunches of wood that he can collect.

He's always hated winter, for as long as he can remember (three years, to be exact). And really, it's not just because of the threat of starvation, of freezing to death. He's dealt with the gnawing pain of the former and the icy cold fringes of nearly the latter, but that's not it. The starvation and wetness and cold are all part of Mother Nature's realm, her season of sheer cold beauty.

No. He's always hated winter because every slap of biting wind and every flash of blue-white icicle is an instant moment of deja vu, a split-second image of sharp-biting _cold_ digging into his brain, extracting extracting. Leaving him immobilized like a stone statue, and fresh as a newborn pup afterwards.

It's the earliest memory he has.

Well, really it's more of a dream. Because Sebastian knows that anything like that is impossible. His true first memory is waking up on the forest floor, covered in that wool sweater and trousers, two knives and a giant coat made of what he had decided was a grey wolf. Even odder is the fact that for some reason there was a statistic running in his head as soon as he'd looked down at it- The last grey wolf spotted in Ireland died in the 18th century.

The leaves had been orange and red all around him, the midst of autumn death, a myriad of colours and Sebastian had sat up, looking all around himself and knowing from the bottom of his heart that something more than his memories were missing. Something terribly human was _gone_. A fact that had reaffirmed itself when he found he couldn't stand to leave the forest. All he had was a name and vague instincts.

A fact made glaringly obvious when he stopped talking and mumbling to himself and just succumbed to the more natural, guttural noises to ward off animals.

Sebastian shakes away the thoughts with a literal body jerk, his muscles spasming from the cold for a moment. He'll have to head back soon, his arm laden with varying sized logs. Most are frozen and will take forever to melt and then dry, but Jim will have to deal with it.

Jim.

Sebastian wrinkles his nose just thinking about the man, his head so foggy and confused that he nearly trips over a tree root. He's wandered probably a good half mile away from the cottage to gather the better wood, so at least he has some time to think. The rough bark of a nearby tree stabilizes him when he braces himself, and he pats the wood calmly through a gloved hand, the other arm almost buckling under all the wood. Sebastian gathers himself then situates the logs back into both of his hands, continuing his walk.

The professor that's taken him in is a curiosity, to say the least. The man thinks him an idiot, Sebastian knows, and maybe he is, maybe there's something that he's missing, but really. He's much more perceptive than Jim thinks he is. He just gets… Fuzzy, sometimes. Absent. Loses his most visceral thoughts.

But still. Sebastian can't complain, considering the man has let him into his home when he could have refused him. He would have died.

Which is weird. It was strange, the night previous. Though he normally only slept for a couple hours at the most, here and there in order to stay on high alert at all times, he'd fallen asleep at dawn and woken at sunset. His coat had been missing, along with the shoes, hats and other assortment of _warmth_ that he'd created, leaving him shivering and half-coherent. Everything was missing, with no explanation why.

He decides it must be the _Nachzeher._

That probably requires a bit of explaining- it's not that Sebastian believes in the myths of German demonic vampires, but it's an apt name at most. He's felt their chilling, cold shadowy presence since he woke up on that forest floor three years previous, just sitting outside of his vision, always. Shouts never worked on them (They disappeared), and talking didn't, either, and though they cast a looming figure in his peripheral, they never seemed to bother him.

In fact, he's rather certain they saved him more than once. His first winter, he remembers being too chilled to the bone, almost frozen, but he'd woken up one morning to find himself wrapped in several fur coats and thick-hided boots.

He wonders why they would take them away this time around. It's not paranoia, it's not; it's just healthy wariness around the unknown. Oh, he isn't fooling anyone. Sebastian is extremely paranoid. But it's for good reason, considering he's run around with ice in his head and shadows in his side since he woke up with no memory.

The man hums to himself as he steps into the snowy yard of the cottage clearing, the sounds catching in his raw throat and causing spots of pain, scratchiness. But if he were expected to speak out loud now, with the presence of another human being, Sebastian really ought to get over the half-used grumble he's been forced to rumble in.

The wood gets set down on the porch with a dull _thump_ sound that reminds him of settling his own fatigued body on the porch the night previous. He'd been so cold and _tired_. Sebastian's mind, he thinks, had been nearly entirely instinct when Jim first opened his mouth on the other side of the door. He'd let himself regress into the animal he fears he's turning into and it had intrigued and terrified the professor.

Sebastian lets out a huff of a breath, running a hand down his face. Honestly, despite how rudely Jim had been asking him to go gather the wood, it had done him a lot of good. The sheer cold had heightened his mind, he likes to think. Or maybe it's the fact that he's been in the presence of something sentient for a while, someone he can actually be a _human_ with.

He steps into the house, shivering at the sudden temperature change, stripping off his gloves and outmost layers, unlacing his boots with fumbling hands. His own boots never had this much complicated maneuvers involved. Sebastian gives a little satisfied hum when he finally throws them away from his feet, padding over to the kitchen to warm up better. There's a pot of coffee on the stove, and though he doesn't know _why_, he can go through the motions, finding himself a mug and pouring evenly. It's all muscle memory- Sebastian knows he's likely done this in the past, considering his body seems to know what to do, but it's nothing conscious.

Maybe Freud had it all right, all along.

The first sip of coffee is the most heavenly nectar he could possibly imagine, bitter, electric energy running through his body and chasing away the cold (He likes to pretend it chases away the icy locks in his brain, melts them, but it's more hope than anything). Sebastian knows he's practically purring, a deep satisfied rumble deep in his throat that he emulated after he took in the fox kit a summer ago, each molecule of caffeine swimming through him in what he can only imagine is happy whirls and swirls of excitement.

Sebastian realizes with a sudden tremor in his chest that this is the first time he's been happy in… Well. He's not sure that he's ever been happy. He's been content, but right now, sitting at the table with coffee in his right hand and _Leaves of Grass_ with his left, a voice to talk to and a warmth in his bones he hasn't felt since summer… Yes. Sebastian is rather happy.

He finishes off his cup of coffee and pours another, setting the book down on the counter before he starts to wander the small cottage again, bare feet making a vague padding sound against the old, well-worn wood floors. Sebastian can tell that it's an old building, something that the professor must have either bought or inherited.

It's that thought that makes him stop in his tracks, cocking his head to the side slightly as he muses through the thought more carefully. Because it's a much more conscious thought, something very human-based in a way that he's not getting from the naturalism present in his book. No. Something about being in a warm house with a human voice is putting his thoughts back in order, driving away the fuzzy subconscious instincts that he had been living by for much too long now.

A door opens down the hall, and Sebastian blinks, turning around and heading that way instead. For some reason, all he wants to do is _talk_ to _Herr_ Moriarty, babble to him about anything and learn things from him, learn about him in a way that strikes him as odd and weird. He thinks, idly, that maybe his conscious-driven thoughts are returning the more that he speaks to the other man.

Sebastian nearly collides with him in a repetition of the morning when he realizes that Jim is right in front of him, dressed in casual slacks and another one of those wool sweaters, but he manages to side step him smoothly before he does, limbs fluid and agile from years of navigating the forests.

"Whoa, Tiger, watch it!" Jim hisses, nearly jumping out of his skin at the sudden appearance of Sebastian, huddling in on himself. He's uncomfortable and wary about something, Sebastian muses, embarrassment evident in the high flush of his cheeks, the way his fingers scrabble at one another. Seb is curious about why the man would feel embarrassed in front of him, but he wills back the question, choosing instead to smile at the nickname.

Jim seems fond of nicknames, as though it removes him from the visceral reality of a name. Or at least, that's how Sebastian takes it. It's another example of him trying to_ learn_ as much as he can about Jim, for no reason. Survival doesn't mean gossiping and trading stories like a couple of looners.

"Sorry." Sebastian murmurs, taking another step back. He sniffs the air in distaste, noting the cloying smell of shampoo and soap that hangs around Jim like a cloud and scowls. He'd rather liked the natural scent of Jim. "I brought in the firewood for you." A change in the pattern of his thoughts seems to be the best route, and he watches Jim's reaction like a hawk.

"Oh, it cold outside?" Jim seems to have regained his composure, the faint echoes of surprise and embarrassment dying away as a wall slams shut on his eyes, dark intelligent brown fading away to something colder. Sebastian fights a shudder- it's like watching a man lock himself away from the outside world, making himself metal and impenetrable.

"_Sehr._" The thought is so overwhelming he forgets to respond to English, his mind and voice automatically going to the germanic language. Blinking, he corrects, "Very. It will be extremely cold tonight."

Jim gives a weird little smile, one that he locks away behind a less pleasing smirk, reaching forward to pat Sebastian's shoulder comfortingly. "Well. Good job getting the wood." Like a damned puppy, patting him. Sebastian feels a low rumble in his chest as he steps away from Jim's touch, eyes narrowing. He is no one's pet, no animal despite Jim's several nicknames for him.

Surprisingly, Sebastian sees a flash of fear in his counterpart's eyes before that's locked away, too. He wonders if something has happened to the professor for him to react so scatter-brained, so shallow in both conversation and thought. The taste of coffee on his mouth calms him from rising questions, a deep sigh burried in the cup.

Jim chuckles, shuffling away from Sebastian and moving back to the kitchen, the later deciding to follow behind him. "I see you've found the coffee. I thought I'd be nice and have some warmed for when you get back." The professor says as they step into the dark-toned kitchen, uncharacteristically humble.

"Thank you." Sebastian murmurs, sitting back heavily into his chair and taking another sip of the coffee. Jim hums in response, making himself his own cup and throwing so much sugar and honey in it that Sebastian isn't sure it is coffee anymore.

"Of course." Jim murmurs, pulling out his own book- It seems to be William Blake, must like poetry- humming to himself as he sits opposite of Sebastian.

It's an odd moment of domesticity that Sebastian is not used to, has never experienced. It's… Nice. And as long as he doesn't mention the several times he's let his instincts take over and nearly maul the man (or kiss him), he feels comfortable, collected, and Jim does as well.

The only sound that echoes through the house is the faint sound of pages turning, Sebastian sometimes leaning forwards to ask Jim what a particular colloquialism or phrase or reference means, the professor's Irish lilt rising up into a much-longer than needed lecture, beautiful lips curving up into a slow smirk, Sebastian taking everything in, internalizing it. He's genuinely interested in everything that Jim has to be, regardless of how many swears the man uses and strange changes in conversation.

It's… Perfect. Sebastian doesn't want it to end.

_Listen! I will be honest with you,_  
_I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes._


End file.
